


Phántasma

by Anakletos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cat, Depression, Grief, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anakletos/pseuds/Anakletos
Summary: Harry can't sleep.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Kudos: 19





	Phántasma

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Fantasmi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684668) by [unababbana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unababbana/pseuds/unababbana). 



> Beta'd by the lovely [Lila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaDiurne/pseuds/LilaDiurne)!

There is a warm weight on my body, pressing down on me. The house creaks without making a sound. I can't see anything, simply hear a gentle purring. _Concentrate on that._

You are dead, I know you are. I dream of you hugging me - you haven't left -, gruff as usual, arrogant. I can see you slowly dissipating, the dream fading away. My ears catch harassing sounds. Every day the world wakes up and you are not there.

I wake up a second time and the double bed is too wide, the springs too stiff. Your weight is missing.

There is a warm weight on my body, pressing over mine. _Just think on that._ But sometimes it's not enough, because the warmth, no matter how enveloping, no matter how reassuring, the warmth is not enough.

I try to attract the cat's attention, but when does it ever work? This cat hates me, he keeps looking at me sideways. That's your cat, not mine. The first time I held him, he pissed on me. You looked at me with a raised eyebrow and drawled, "He's incontinent". _You liar._

I've heard that cats piss on objects to mark their territory. But who do I belong to? You or the cat?

After the umpteenth tongue snap, the cat looks at me. All I see are shadows, the candlelight has dimmed already. Though the cat looks bothered, perhaps uncertain, one ear twitches. I pat my chest like I've seen you do many times. Now both ears are twitching.

"Look, I miss him too," I whisper, aware that he understands me. The cat is unmoving between my thighs, where it is warm. I'm sweating - is that even possible? - but I don't want to push him away.

No, if I close my eyes and concentrate on the cat's purring, then I'm fine. _Everything is fine._

This house is old, just how old? Why do I live here again? It's full of draughts, of ghosts.

I think about things, but I overdo it. I try to sleep, but it doesn't really work. Thoughts swirl, one after the other, my head pounding.

One day I'll be alone in this bed, with the wallpaper crumbling around me and I won't even have Cat to keep me company. He'll be dead too.

I will be left with his encrusted bowl and all my "Scourgifys" will bounce off it. I will be left with this empty space between my thighs where he used to nod off.

Suddenly, like a Muggle switch, here I am holding back tears.

_It hasn't happened yet, it won't happen for some time._

I reach out my hand, throat scratching. I have to drink something, but I have no intention of moving. I scratch Cat's head, purrs increasing in volume. His nose is still wet, the vibrissae long and thick as befits a cat. I caress his cheek, a totally human but inevitable gesture.

I choke a breath at the equally inevitable bite.

_He is here, living. With me. He is not going anywhere._

I smile even if it is dark, even if there is only a bored cat watching me smile.

I don't know if it's the regenerating Potions - supplements that you left for him - that make him look so healthy, so whole. His teeth are strong, firm, his hair soft and, even if I don't see him, shiny.

Sometimes I think I'm dead inside. I don't think there are potions for that, something to make my teeth stronger, my hair shinier, my skin rosier. You left me only some Dreamless Sleep and a note written with your troll handwriting saying: "Yes, but don't gobble that up, Potter".

_I miss you, you arsehole._

But then, who would have thought you'd be such a hero? I certainly didn't. You always used to take the piss out of me for that, and one day, as we were walking down the street, you called me Messiah in front of everyone. The very next day the newspapers were calling me that; gone was the good old _Saviour of the Wizarding World_.

And how you were gloating when you read The Daily Prophet. And to think that you never read that _rubbish_. I think I'd have strangled you and you'd have even let me do it. I'm guessing now, I'm not so sure anymore.

_Did I ever tell you you're an arsehole?_

I remember I did many times that day.

I should change my pillow because this one is flat and hard. I keep turning my neck right and left, looking for a comfortable position that I can't find. No, I never look at the ceiling and you know it.

I have this strange fear that a Dementor will swoop down on me, suffocating me. I see you handing me that bloody Dreamless Sleep, without saying a word.

_Yes, but I'm not feeling so bad,_ I think now with a slight grimace on my face.

 _Yes, but don't gobble that up, Potter_ , says your note.

When would I?

My eyes prickle a bit, but I keep them closed. Cat sleeps blissfully, his nose whistling slightly at each intake of breath.

Why?

In dreams we tend to give shape to things, fears, anxieties, our success. No, I didn't read that, I've merely been told; you know very well that I don't read much. We give shape to things that don't exist in reality, things we miss.

I have protected all my dreams: I pull them out, pour them out and relive them over and over while my hands rest on the cold marble of the Pensieve. What else should I do? You are not there. That is, here.

There is warmth between my thighs, where Cat usually nods off. I feel like someone is looking and as I squint at the ceiling, I have to close them immediately for the blinding light. Who opened the curtains?

I hear voices coming from downstairs, and I sink better between the sheets, the weight of the woollen duvet lulling me to sleep. It makes my nose twitch a bit when it touches it, but that's all right.

Your hand is a burning oven compared to mine. Where did you go? I try to ask you, but my voice is a sleepy mumble.

"Shh," you whisper, a breath of wind against my face. "I couldn't come before but I'm here now. Sleep.”

And that's what I do, finally giving in to the inevitable.

I hear footsteps, light crunching against broken glass.


End file.
